FYLI, NORTHWESTERN PART OF ATTICA, GREECE
PRESENT DAY
ETA one minute,” Helen Jouvert said, backing her rental Peugeot 508 down an alleyway seventy yards from her final destination.
“Good copy,” came Donovan Wade’s reply through the miniature earbud in Helen’s right ear. “Our friend came to about three or four minutes ago.”
“How is he? Alert enough for a chat?” she asked.
“Not yet. Soon. He’s still a bit confused and unfocused, but he’s coming around,” Donovan said with a chuckle.
I bet.
From the alleyway where she had parked her vehicle, the abandoned one-story car repair shop occupied by Donovan and their guest was visible. Donovan’s minivan was by the side entrance of the shop and easily accessible in case they needed to rush out of the building. While the decrepit building could compete with all the other structures in the neighborhood for the status of most neglected, the fact that it was still connected to the power grid and had running water almost disqualified it. Helen had chosen Fyli—a small town of less than three thousand souls half an hour’s drive from Athens’s city center—to conduct the next phase of the operation because she’d been assured by the analysts back in New York that the town’s inhabitants weren’t the kind to pry into other people’s business.
Across the street from the repair shop, an unfinished four-story building and a vacant lot had been transformed into a temporary stage for what looked like a moussaka cook-off. Six old men with bouzoukis—a stringed instrument resembling a mandolin—played music, and at least three dozen people drifted back and forth between eating, dancing, and singing. It gave the street a jovial ambiance Helen hadn’t expected to see. She grabbed the backpack she had left on the front passenger seat and climbed out of the Peugeot. She hadn’t yet closed the door when the moussaka’s heavenly scents—a mix of freshly grilled meat, spices, and vegetables—reached her nose and made her stomach growl.
To avoid anyone seeing her enter the repair shop, Helen walked around the back of the Peugeot and headed deeper into the alleyway. She made a left into a narrow side street that led to the back of the shop.
“Donovan, are you hearing the party going on at the property directly across the street?” she asked.
“Hard not to, but they can’t see inside,” Donovan assured her. “Most doors and windows are boarded up.”
“Understood. I’m approaching the rear entrance of the shop. Is it unlocked?”
“It is now,” her partner replied an instant later.
Helen pulled the door open and stepped inside the dimly lit garage. She locked the door behind her and adjusted the backpack on her shoulder. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the sudden change in luminosity, then looked around. Twenty steps away and with his back to her, a thirtysomething man was seated on a metallic chair in the middle of the barren space. His wrists and ankles were firmly fastened to the chair with zip ties. He was naked but for a pair of white socks. He had heard her come in and was now craning his neck left and right in a futile effort to look behind him.
By the look of it, the car repair shop hadn’t been used in years, but the smell of stale oil and gasoline still lingered in the air and obliterated the last of the wonderful aromas coming from the cook-off that had slipped through the door with her. Dozens of tires were stacked against the walls, and nearly every surface was covered with discarded tools and small motor parts. Sunlight sieved through a filthy window set high against the concrete wall, angling dusty rays of light down into the room and casting a shadow in front of the bound man. On the opposite side of the room, Donovan Wade was leaning against the wall, one hand holding a phone, the other one deep in the pocket of his dark windbreaker. He acknowledged her with a nod but remained silent.
Helen approached the prisoner and ran her hand across his naked shoulders as she walked in front of him. She turned to face him and moved her eyes to his most private part.
“I mean, yeah, it’s cool in here, but it’s not that cold,” she said, shaking her head.
“Fuck you, bitch!” the man spat.
Helen laughed. “With what? That? I don’t think so.”
The man’s face mottled red, and he looked away.
Easily rattled. Easily intimidated. And he speaks English like a champ.
Helen unslung the backpack and set it down at her feet. She dug inside for a roll of duct tape, a pair of headphones, and an old iPod. She grabbed the duct tape and walked to the naked man.
“You stupid whore! What are you gonna—”
Helen shut the man up mid-sentence by delivering two quick, powerful jabs to his nose. Blood poured from his nostrils and broken lips, staining his chest red. Before the man could regain his senses, Helen rolled the duct tape several times tightly around the man’s mouth. She then plugged the headphones into the iPod and adjusted them over his ears. She scrolled through the available playlists and selected 50 Best Love Songs of All Time. She tapped the play button and cranked up the volume as high as it would go. The man’s body went as rigid as a steel rod and he let out a muffled yell from behind his gag.
She set the iPod at the man’s feet, a mere inch away from his toe. She winked at him.
The man’s name was Dimitri Callellis, aka Angelo2013. He was a mid-level thug in the scheme of things, but an influential member of the Popular Fighters Group. The PFG was a left-wing organization that had come together in 2013 as a response to the austerity measures that had been forced down the throat of the Greek people by the International Monetary Fund and the European Central Bank in exchange for the bail-out money that had saved Greece from a sovereign default.
While most of the Popular Fighters Group’s terror attacks since its inception had targeted the government of Greece and German organizations in and around Athens, the group had recently sent a series of letter bombs to the residences of American diplomats living in Greece. One of the bombs had killed the ambassador’s administrative assistant, and another had slightly injured a Greek police officer. Dreading additional attacks and enraged at how long it was taking the FBI and the Hellenic Police to formulate a response, let alone ferret out the culprits, Director of National Intelligence Edward Russell had tasked Blackbriar Director Oliver Manton to run a covert but parallel investigation.
Not bound by all the inefficient bureaucratic rules and procedures that prevented the FBI from timely action, Blackbriar analysts had moved fast and quickly zeroed in on Angelo2013. Gutsy Angelo2013 had mentioned on several Tor-based darknet marketplaces that more American pigs would soon feel the wrath of the Popular Fighters Group.
“And next time, it won’t be letter bombs,” Angelo2013 had promised.
Manton had sent Helen and Donovan to Greece to find out who was behind the Angelo2013 avatar and if that person or group was indeed responsible for the letter bombs. Manton also wanted to know what resources were at the group’s disposal and how close they were from launching another attack. To lure Angelo2013 out of hiding, the two Blackbriar agents—posing as Hezbollah operatives—had reached out to him on the darknet and implied that they would be willing to contribute to his war efforts by providing him with enough ammonium nitrate to blow up half a city block—but only if Angelo2013 agreed to certain terms. At first Angelo2013 had been guarded, but the resistance had melted away like snow in the sun when Helen had sweetened the deal by offering him a Bitcoin just to meet with them and listen to what they had to say.
Half a Bitcoin now. Half a Bitcoin after the meeting.
Helen and Donovan had set up surveillance near the meeting place—a small café in Exarcheia, a neighborhood with the reputation of being Athens’s historical core of radical political activities and a clear favorite among the anarchist crowd. As per the directives Director Manton had given them, Helen and Donovan’s primary objective had been to identify the person or people behind the Angelo2013 pseudonym.
It hadn’t taken long.
Just as Donovan had predicted, Angelo2013 had turned out to be a twat, not an accomplished operative like Helen had feared. Walking by the café looking nervously left and right no less than four times had been a dead giveaway for the Greek terrorist. Medium height and on the chubby side, the man had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Both Helen and Donovan had managed to snap good pictures of him with their phones. Using a facial recognition app linked to the Blackbriar tactical operations center in New York, they had rapidly identified Angelo2013 as Dimitri Callellis.
Just before entering the café, Dimitri had peered intently through the glass doorway for a few seconds, as if he was reconsidering his decision to meet with Hezbollah operatives. In the end, greed trumped sanity, and Dimitri had stepped inside the café.
Once Helen was convinced Dimitri was alone, and Donovan had confirmed he was in position, she had given an errand boy five euros to deliver a note to Dimitri inside the café. Following the directives written on the note, Dimitri had made his way to the bathroom, where Donovan was waiting. A quick jab with a needle had rendered the Greek man unconscious. Donovan had carried him through the café’s back exit and into a minivan. Donovan had left with the minivan toward Fyli, while Helen had climbed into her own vehicle and checked for surveillance or any sign that Dimitri had brought backup. He hadn’t.
Behind Helen, Donovan cleared his throat. She turned to face him, and he gestured for her to come over.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Kind of,” Donovan replied. His voice was deep, with just a hint of huskiness. He handed her the phone he’d been holding. “I think our hero here is acting alone, or at least without the knowledge of the PFG leadership.”
“Is that so?” Helen glanced at Dimitri, waving a finger in his direction, as if he were a misbehaving child. Tears stemming from what she imagined to be rage, pain, and maybe a bit of fear streamed down his crimson face. “That would explain why he showed up alone. Let me see.”
Helen scrolled through the email messages Dimitri had received in the last four days. Although the messages had originally been written in Greek, Donovan had downloaded onto Dimitri’s phone an app capable of translating text written in a foreign language into English.
“Holy crap, his revolutionary friends at the PFG aren’t only looking for him, they want to freakin’ kill him,” Helen said once she was done skimming through the emails. “Either our buddy Dimitri is working for an element outside of his regular network, or he’s become an autonomous terror cell.”
Donovan made a face. “Autonomous terror cell? That sounds a touch too sophisticated for this guy. He’s just a piece of shit who went rogue.”
“Maybe, but he’s killed an American diplomat and threatened to kill more,” Helen reminded her partner, handing the phone back to him. “We’ll need to forward all of these to headquarters.”
“I’ll do it, but there’s nothing else on the phone. It’s clearly a burner. There are no text messages on it, only the emails you read.”
“I still think we should ask Dimitri a few questions. You know, to ascertain his motives and determine if he’s been working alone,” Helen said. “Care to do it?”
She turned to Donovan to gauge his reaction, but he was too close, and she had to take a step back and look up to find his eyes. At five feet nine inches, Helen wasn’t a short woman, but Donovan still towered over her by at least half a foot. It was their third mission together, and she didn’t know much about him at all. With the exception of what Director Manton had shared with her—that Donovan Wade was a former CIA officer—Helen had no idea what Donovan’s life story was. He was a private man, and he wasn’t a big talker. She had probed him a few times about his background, but he had remained vague. Still, he was a good partner. She was the team leader, but so far she had never felt the need to pull rank on him, which told her that he had probably spent time in the military prior to joining the CIA.
When she was working for the FBI’s Counterintelligence Division, she had regularly partnered with CIA officers on joint investigations. She’d found most of them to be pricks, full of themselves and quick to dismiss her because she was a woman.
But not Donovan. He was . . . different. And yet, she had a tough time getting a read on the man.
“I’d be happy to get some answers out of him for you,” he said, his eyes locking on Dimitri. “I’ll only need a minute.”
Helen didn’t know if it was the subtle change in his demeanor or the speed with which his gentle blue eyes had turned threatening when he had looked at Dimitri, but Helen felt a chill run down her spine—an abnormal occurrence for her.
A little voice in her head urged her to ask Donovan to stand down, to tell him that she would ask Dimitri the questions, but just as she was about to open her mouth to speak, her encrypted phone vibrated in her pocket. She looked at the screen.
Headquarters was checking in.